Candle Burns Blue
by Carys Cooper
Summary: Set between the dinner scene and Scully's meeting with Cobra. CGB Spender is allowed some time to dwell over what he's said to his reluctant companion. Missing scene to Season 7's 'En Ami' spoilers. full MA version available upon request


Title : Candle Burns Blue (1/3)  
Author : Eisenkreis : (hints of) CSM/Scully Category : Missing Scene / En Ami Rating : PG

Summary : Set between the dinner scene in En Ami and Scully's eventual meeting with Cobra. With so much unsettled emotion running rampant... what's a man to do?

Notes : This is one of the first fanfics I've written in about two years of downtime. I won't say 'be gentle' because that's bullshit; be as freaking brutal as you wanna be. It was largely inspired by, obviously, the episode entitled En Ami, but there isn't much that's 'new,' so it's not as spoiler-heavy as it could be. Context could be a little off, but so long as you have a basic understanding of the characters, it's readable. The only thing that's a bit telling is that the Season 7 varients are more 'matured,' and there's a lot more resignation in concerns to how they deal with one another. A fair bit of snappy biteyness, of course, as is endemic of this particular community. ;3 Feel free to ream my sorry ass for poor characterization; I WELCOME that. If I did a bad job, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TELL ME. If there's one thing I CAN'T STAND about fanfiction, it's poor characterization; so if I'm guilty of it, slap me upside de haid and tell me I'm a big fat hypocrit. Then tell me how to correct it. - Assuming this flies, the other two parts are NC-17 in nature, and will be posted according to response (because i'm a big attention whore).

Into the endless whisper Through fire and ice, no more to roam.  
A restless soul is lifted up-  
Is carried home...

Twilight.

Poets, dreamers-- those that gave themselves over to whimsical delusions-- were quick to point out that these were the hours meant for loneliness. In doing so, they granted it a kind of sentience; a kind of power no single human could capture, only cultivate. He would know, of course; staring listlessly at the fire in front of him, he can't help but see his current predicament as apt. It went beyond a sarcastic, humorless brand of irony and into something far more laughable; deserved, perhaps, that a man with no discernible name could take so much from the populace at large with no concievable consequence. The way it seemed to parallel with the here and now affords him a wan smile, expression thoughtful, the time-weathered grooves in his face casting deeper shadows along his features. Were anyone around, they might go so far as to call the visage distinguished; comforting, even.

/And therein lies the irony, he thinks, willing the smile to disappear. With no one to appreciate what he has to offer-- all of which seem tainted by a ruse within a ruse within a-- he, himself, is losing sight of what he'd dreamed about so long ago.

Twilight hours. Twilight years.

The parallels give rise to an equally humorless chuckle, the sound staved off as he raises a glass of wine. The dichotomy it presents-- wine, as opposed to thoughts it tends to breathe life into-- is little more than another conundrum. Funny, that it would be in the face of one who considered him a mortal enemy that he'd find that conundrum granted a note of ferocity, the words banging at the inside of his head like an angry, caged animal. In her face was passion; in his was resignation. A calm, albeit helpless understanding of what everything amounted to. Shaking his head, the old man looks towards the rumpled pack of cigarettes on the table beside him, his hand tilting to swill the wine around in the crystal glass he holds. Quiet, contemplative. Waiting, watching. He'd be remiss in assuming he is anything but a well-trained predator, using whatever means he has at his disposal to take down his quarry. Quarry that, when push comes to shove, is beginning to ease in his presence.

Ease.

He saw sympathy in her, this time. An ability to see past what had been, reach into what is. At one point he would have discounted it as the feeble nature of womankind, showing her as wholly unable to remain stalwart to a specific cause. When it became painfully clear that he has little else left to give-- and, of course, to recieve-- that tiny shred of sympathy warmed him. It wasn't pity he saw in her; were that the case, he wouldn't have found himself immersed in a maudlin reverie. Like the novellas he'd given up on, texts meant to grant insight into the person he had to be, he knew that this was the very embodiment of futility, to hope that that sympathy could lead to anything but a dead-end. In the morning, she'll forget what insights she'd been given; after that, she'd be made to forget everything, struck down in spite of all he's promised her.

Dana Scully. The name passes through his mind, prompting another tip of his glass, the wine warming his stomach as its promise of anesthetic spreads through his bloodstream. What he sees in her is just as immaterial as the thoughts that possess him. It wasn't love he felt, of course, but an aggravatingly persistent need to give back some of what he'd ripped from her. It's...

Laughable is, apparently, the word of the day.

"How long have you been awake?"

While, in days gone by, he might have for seen the arrival of another, the words startle him. He can feel tension rush through his system, though he makes no motion to communicate that surprise. For all of a second, he hopes it's simply an illusion; that he's unknowingly slipped into slumber-- that this is a dream.

"I could ask you the same," he replies, his eyes remaining on the fire, voice typically nonchalant. The withdrawal is comfort, even if that comfort lasts for all of two seconds.

There is no immediate reply on her part, though her curiosity is palpable. Curiosity in concerns to what was anyone's guess. The words that do come, however, are ones he can guess well before they're spoken out loud.

"Funny," Scully says, her voice teetering on the cusp of sarcasm, "I never figured men like you were prone to insomnia."

He understands her need to remain caustic, of course; it, like his nonchalance, is protection. "One could say the same of the incessantly heroic," he replies, without hesitation or ire. "That all those good deeds are all that's necessary to lull you to sleep, in spite of all the consequences." At this, he turns, seeing her in his peripheral vision. The faint, lilting disappointment that she'd donned simple bedclothes surprises him; it's not as though he expected her to remain in that dress. "We're more alike than you're willing to admit."

"I fail to see how," is her response, a quick rise to defense.

Also expected.

Turning back to look at the firelight, he can't help the smile that crosses over his features. "Of course not," he says, taking another small sip. "The single-minded pursuit of justice all but blinds you to the possibility that atrocities are a necessary evil; that sacrifices must be made."

"And what sacrifices have you made?"

He doesn't feel the bite of the question; he can feel her shy away from it the moment she asks. Allowing for a moment of silence, he enables her to reflect on the mistake, dwell on the error she's made. The silence is pregnant, all-pervasive. Her guilt, like her curiosity, is palpable.

"What do you hope to gain by asking that question?" he asks her, calmly. "What are you hoping to hear that you haven't already figured out on your own?" Silence. She won't answer truthfully, he knows. "Vindication, perhaps?" He knows she can hear his smile in his tone as he amends, "Would it make you feel better to know that I've suffered far more in my lifetime than I'm willing to let on?"

"Maybe it would."

The honesty is a breath of fresh air, but now is not the time to say what's really on his mind.

"Winston Churchill," he says, seemingly tangential, "a man history recognizes for his brilliance and diplomacy, is still under suspect for withholding knowledge that could have saved Coventry. I imagine you're familiar with the story."

She pauses. She gets it. She doesn't want to; he doesn't need to see her to know that. He knows her well enough already.

"That..." she stops herself to consider. "That by saving Coventry, the Germans would know we cracked their code, and we wouldn't have the intel necessary to end the war."

His smile broadens. "Now you're catching on."

He can hear her begin to move from her spot at the staircase, making her way over towards the sofa alongside him. He doesn't change the trajectory of his glance; instead, he picks up the lonesome pack of cigarettes, fishing one out for the mere sake of holding it. It remains unlit.

"That doesn't stop what you've done," she says, the strength of her conviction returning. "To me; to Mulder--"

"Of course not," he says, seemingly unrepentant. "Nor does it stop what I've done to countless others in pursuit of the project. The same could be said for Mulder, you realize; for you, as well. You did what you thought was right, and in doing so-- in getting involved-- you knew that you'd be putting the lives of those you loved in danger. You'd think that after all you've lost you'd realize that the blame can't rest solely on my shoulders. Or Mulder's, for that matter." He turns to look at her, seeing the anger on her features; the stiffened jaw, lips pursed into a tight line. "Once I realized what was necessary to complete my goals, I made all the sacrifices you and Mulder are unwilling to make: renouncing the selfish need for human contact."

He lets that sink in. It's a tough message to swallow, of course; one she's trying desperately to find a comeback for. She can, of course; she can justify it, package it, and regurgitate that rationale to him with as much ease as a blustering car salesman. Instead, she bows her head, loosening an exasperated sigh that's telling of inevitable defeat. She'll never admit it verbally, but he's pleased to see a hairline fracture in that conviction-- not out of malice, of course. To him, it's like watching a child become an adult; he's proud of her.

She understands.

"I can't say the sacrifice was all for naught," he continues, replenishing the wine in his glass. "While it presents some unfortunate truths that I have to face in the here and now, I don't regret making those steps to ensure the safety of others."

"You say that now," she says, "But that doesn't explain why you reached out to Spender."

He smiles. He can see subdued shock on her face as a result of it; he can see her recoil at a flicker of grief passing through his eyes. An infinitely small window into a brooding sadness he's kept protected for so long.

"I'm only human, Agent Scully."

Using her title, her last name... it eases her again. It's so mechanical, so familiar. It's the message that gets her; the idea that even the devil can break under pressure, much less be broken by something as simple as loneliness. She's fighting with her instinctive compassion; tossing it around in her head. If he hadn't watched her for years on end, he might not be able to read her as well as he can tonight. Even then... if there's one thing he knows about Dana Scully, it's that, in spite of all she wants to believe, she's utterly transparent. Whether she's stricken or simply thoughtful, she's held captive by how awkward she feels. As it's been since they began this journey together, she's unable to separate her anger from what she's witness to. It's a battle she'll have to resolve on her own; one he can't help her with. He can only point her in the right direction.

"I don't suppose you've got another glass?" she queries, at long last, that subtle defeatism coming back to the fore.

"In the cabinet," he replies, gesturing briefly towards the kitchen.

She hesitates, body rife with a kind of tension that speaks of her misgivings. While he, himself, is mildly surprised that she'd even consider letting her guard down, he knows that he's offered her no other alternatives. She can either try to sleep with the thoughts that are undoubtedly cascading through her mind-- a futile effort at best-- or she can join him, attempt to bridge the gap of understanding. The exchange has only heightened her curiosity, and he suspects that it's curiosity alone that brings her to stand and wander into the other room-- just as some small part of him suspects that she longs for the same thing he does. Company.

When she returns, she seats herself heavily, the springs of the couch squeaking in complaint. The sigh that comes from her carries with it a hint of surrender, her gaze coming to rest on him. It's piercing; he can feel her searching for insincerity, for ulterior motive. Setting her glass on the small table next to him, he obliges her by filling the crystal with a respectable portion of wine, forgoing further chivalry by allowing her to retrieve it herself. The illusion of control is one that she's desperate to cling to-- oxymoronically, he can see similarly desperate want to have it wrested from her. The wine is nothing more than a convenient excuse.

"Of all the places I thought I'd be," she says, slipping her fore and middle finger around either side of the glass's stem, allowing her words to trail off. She doesn't need to say the rest.

"With how many unexpected avenues your life has taken," he says, "you shouldn't be surprised."

"I suppose not." The phrase is punctuated by a draught of her wine. She pauses, running her thumb along the contour of the glass, looking at the contents as if she's hoping for it to tell her something profound. "But I think even you have to admit that this entire trip's been pretty out of the ordinary."

"Perhaps," he replies. "Perhaps not." She raises an eyebrow, her expression incredulous. He allows her the unspoken question, and continues: "While this may have strayed somewhat from my intended purpose, I've made it a point to avoid expectation. It can yield pleasant surprises, but clear-cut expectations are the bane of the human experience."

She parses that, sipping at her wine, her analytical nature showing through with flying colors. What she fails to see is that analysis has no place here, unless she makes it a point to turn that analysis inwards.

"I get the feeling you're waiting for me to say something specific," she says. "I'm not sure what it is, but I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to goad me into it."

"As I said before, Dana," he tells her, deferring to her given name, "I'm only human. I'm just as burdened by curiosity as you are."

The use her name lends her pause. "What are you so curious about?" she asks, finally.

"In spite of the opportunities this presents, you've put yourself in a potentially dangerous situation. You know, logically, that there's a likelihood that no good can come of this; that you could stand to lose a great deal. I can't help but wonder what you hope to gain."

"I could--" She lingers on those two words for a moment. "At the risk of repeating myself, I could ask you the same thing."

"If you think about it, you'd realize I've already answered your question."

The bomb's been dropped, and it shows. Her expression goes from quiet surprise to disgust, but that inherent curiosity never dims. It just worsens, morbid as it might be. It's eating her up inside, and he knows just by looking at her that she's wondering if she should feel in some way objectified. Once again, he's both amused by and grateful for her transparence.

"You're lonely."

His eyes go back to the firelight, raising his glass. "Aren't we all?"

She catches the subtext with ease. "Are you assuming that I came with you because I'm lonely?" she blurts out, her tone making it obvious that she finds the idea absurd, even disquieting.

"I told you before that my intentions are honorable," he reminds her. "That hasn't changed. But it occurs to me that, no matter what labels you're willing to give me, I've paid you more attention and respect than your own partner."

Scully scoffs audibly at this, affronted by what she's likely to perceive as arrogance. "How can you say that with a straight face?" she fires back at him, her tone incredulous, punctuated by a bemused half-smile.

"Easily," he says, simply. "I won't discount that he cares a great deal for you, of course. But in his own search for the meaning of life, he's left you stranded; selfishly dragged you with him on a path that holds nothing but grief. His dedication to you is commendable, but it has its limitations." Another sip; he's on a slippery slope with this train of thought, and he knows it. Unlike her, he fails to show it. "I suspect you're well aware of that."

It's her turn to drown out her response with wine-- a sip that turns into a gulp. He's hit a nerve.

"I fail to see how killing my sister is 'attention' and 'respect,'" she says bitterly.

"We all make mistakes."

"Mistakes," she snaps, the word spat out like poison, fiery eyes meeting his head-on. She's so appalled by what he's said that she's wholly unable to say anything else, the words failing to come to mind. Eventually, she finds her tongue again. "That bullet was meant for me; how does that equal respect?"

"In a game like this," he says with the same ease he's harbored for the entirety of the exchange, "being percieved as that much of a threat is most certainly a form of respect, not that I expect you to see it that way." In a way, it's a partial lie; her death was a way to get to Mulder as much as anything, but the point is moot.

She opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. She's fuming; on another level entirely, she sees exactly what he means.

"So you respect me," she says, flatly. "Not that I know where you're going with this."

"I think you do."

In that moment, she looks like she's been struck. She stiffens again, waiting only a fragment of a second before downing the rest of her wine, reaching out to snatch the bottle from the table, her motions sharp; deliberate. Once she refills her glass, she sets the bottle back down on the table, rueful.

"This is so screwed up," she says, more to herself than to him, taking a more controlled sip from her glass.

"So it is," he replies, his smile returning, subdued. "But at least you're not lonely."

Without a word, she raises from her seat. Casting a brief glance towards the fire, she returns her gaze to him for a couple moments. She's still fighting with herself; this much is painfully obvious. It's in spite of him that she turns to make her way back up the stairs, wineglass in hand, as if to prove to him that she doesn't need, or want, his company; that she's not so burdened by loneliness that a chat with her so-called worst enemy is easing that emptiness. Her pride won't allow her the admittance. Unlike her, he has no delusions about whether or not he'll be allowed to sleep in the upcoming hours.

Unlike her, he's willing to admit that he's saddened by her departure.

fin?

You want the contiuation? You want the last two parts of the 'fic that lead to a 'startling' confusion? Email me! I'm open to criticism, but I will admit that I'm reluctant to release the next two parts without reader 'approval,' so to speak. Call it blatant attention whoring, but I feel as though I'm somewhat justified, given what it's gearing up towards. o/'

Gimme a hollar. o/'

Eisenkreis 


End file.
